The Struggle for Cyrodiil
by Lord Jacob Of Writing
Summary: Tamriel has crumbled into chaos. Daedra spread across the provinces, dealing death at every blow. In the dark of night, the dead rise and strike out against those with magical blood. The Eastern Slavers are becoming ever more ambitious, taking hundreds and hundreds of captives back to Morrowind. Only one can restore justice to the realm, and she... has no idea where to start.
1. A Night to Remember

**Hi, this is my first Oblivion fic. I hope you like it. I enjoyed writing it.**

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**Chapter One: A Night to Remember**

"Citizens of the Empire!" The commentator's voice boomed out, echoing through the dusty evening air. "You have all heard the stories about the Arena. The epic battles that we stage. You, no doubt, have come here to see such a battle. And you shall not be disappointed! For tonight, Men, Mer and Beastfolk, I give you… The Tamriel Terror!"

Behind the brooding gates that lead into the Arena, Lorbul gro-Kash scowled. _The Tamriel Terror? _When he'd killed Agronak and claimed the title of Champion, Lorbul had asked to be named _Malacath's Fury. _Ysabel on the other hand,had deemed the name 'blasphemous.' The Orc had to admit she had a point, though. Most Imperials trusted Daedric Princes as far as they could spit, so naming himself in one's honour wouldn't be the best idea.

"His martial prowess is well known," continued the commentator. "But can even he defeat three opponents at once?"

At this, Lorbul stared at his opposition through the gates. As the fat Imperial had said, there were indeed three of them. A Redguard swordsman, who looked pretty wiry - Lorbul had fought his kind before, they usually tried to to dart in and end the fight quickly - a Bosmer archer and a Breton mage. The archer had long slicked back red hair and had a silver bow slung over his back. The Breton was tall, strange for their race, and looked like he'd never worked a day in his life. His bright blue eyes glinted with excitement. The Orc frowned. He'd fought three before, but they'd been Argonian prisoners, untrained in the ways of combat. These three looked battle-hardened. The Breton also held a staff in his hands, and even from here, the Grand Champion could see that it glowed darkly with powerful Destruction. Lorbul wasn't sure that his heavy battle raiment would be able to stop the magicka that could be unleashed.

"Combatants, begin!" roared the commentator.

The bars groaned in protest as they were lowered. To the eager screams of the crowds, Lorbul strode out, sand swirling around his feet, a Daedric warhammer held firmly in his right hand, and a vicious snarl plastered onto his face.

* * *

"Here you go," said Ysabel cheerfully, throwing a heavy bag of gold at him. The muscular Orc caught it deftly, feeling the weight of the thing. They stood in the Battle-Matron's office, a small room - the plain yellowed walls adorned with the schedules of the coming fights. She sat at a weathered old desk, looking up at him as she flicked through a book.

The fight had gone well. His Raiment of Valor was freckled with the dried blood of previous opponents. A few hits had been managed to land on him during this fight, but had been easily turned away by the defence wards on his breastplate. His Raiment of Valour had certainly perfomed admirally. The protective magicka coursing through it prevented most serious injuries. His helmet had been removed, allowing his mess of black hair to flow down to his shoulders.

"They died well," said Lorbul slowly.

"That they did," agreed Ysabel. "I thought that mage had you for a second, though."

The Orc shrugged his huge shoulders. "I've killed mages before."

"And I'll wager you'll kill more in the future," grinned the old woman.

In truth, the mage hadn't posed much of a problem. It had taken a single blow to the chest to kill him - shattering his ribcage, and his shield enchantment. Of course, the war-hammer had helped. Lorbul had yet to meet a foe could withstand Daedric steel. The otherwordly demons were notorious for their evil, but only a fool would question how bloody good they were with a forge.

"Malacath be willing," Lorbul said.

Ysabel grimaced. "I've told you before, keep your gods to yourself. Personally, I couldn't give a shit who you worship, but there are many in this city who feel otherwise.

The Grand Champion nodded, taking in her words. Despite her age, the grizzled old Imperial was a fearsome fighter. In her youth, Ysabel had been a combatant herself, known as the Crimson Blade - a reference to the glowing red dagger she wielded. Now though, age had turned her hair iron grey, and her skin wrinkled. She still kept her dagger, though.

"I'll never understand you humans," he told her. "You insist to crave honesty, but then hold your noses up to it when served."

"Maybe we should all strive to achieve the bluntness of the Orsimer?"

"If only," he muttered. "The world'd be a much simpler place."

"And a worse one, I'd wager," Ysabel countered. "Sometimes the truth isn't the best choice."

"Lies cut both ways. The truth is a katana. One sharp edge."

"And I knew you'd bring in a weapon analogy at some point," teased the old woman. Lorbul couldn't help a small smile.

"Weapons are easier," he admitted. "If only people were so."

"That's a frightful prospect," remarked the Imperial. "You're blunt enough to talk to already. I can't imagine what it'd be like if you were actually a mace."

"I'd smash that 'fan' of mine to pieces."

She smiled. "I'd like to see that."

"You may one day. He's tempted me enough times already."

"It's expected to have some hero worship," Ysabel said. "Considering your position."

"There's a fine line between hero worship and stalking," he grumbled.

"True enough. It's not just you he doted on, if it makes things better? He was exactly the same with Agronak."

Lorbul stiffened. "I'm... sure," he murmered, avoiding her eyes."Anyway," he said suddenly,"this conversation's making my head hurt. I think I'm done for the day I need a rest." He turned for the door to the bloodworks.

"I'll send for a flagon of mulled wine to be sent to your quarters," she said, seeing his expression.

"No, I think I'll sleep out tonight," he told her quietly.

"O-Ok, then," she said, abashed. He went for the exit.

"Try not to squander all the gold on wine," called Ysabel after him.

The Orc shrugged indifferently, ducking his head as he stepped out the office. The door slammed shut, shuddering with anger. The frame stopped trembling after a few seconds, but the Battle-Matron's stony face stayed the same.

* * *

Lorbul didn't have a house. He didn't need one. As an Arena combatant, living quarters were provided for him. But some nights, he'd get the urge to sleep in a Tavern, to lie upon a real bed, rather than a dirty tattered bedroll.

Tonight was one of those nights. The twilight had stretched across the city, bathing it in a brilliant purple glow. The streets were scorched and the crowds that had clamoured there throughout the day had dispersed, leaving only a few merchants dis-assembling their wares.

Lorbul was heading for the Bloated Float. It wasn't the fanciest inn, but he was on good terms with one of the Orcs who worked there. Besides, things in the Waterfront were always a hell of a lot more interesting than the other districts. You never knew when a drunken knife fight was going to erupt. Pickpockets lurked in the shadows, ages differing from six to sixty, all watching the passers-by with the same hungry gleam in the eyes. There were no mansions, no wealthy houses in the Waterfront. Just miles and miles of ruined or crumbling shacks.

As he walked through the harbour, still clad in the heavy chainmail that befitted a Gladiator, Lorbul noticed that the City Guard seemed distracted. They were whispering to each other darkly as they passed, hands drifting to the silver longswords buckled at their side. They looked grim and… scared?

It occurred to Lorbul that he could ask them why they scowled so. He was, after all, the Arena Grand Champion. With his reputation, they might tell him. He considered it for a moment, and then decided against it. It was of little concern to him if the City Watch were feeling nervous. There had probably been a bandit attack or a robbery - nothing serious.

The Orc was jolted out of his thoughts by a tiny Bosmer bumping into him. Despite the difference in size, the Wood Elf looked up at him fearlessly with a smile that split his face.

"By Azura, by Azura, by Azura! I thought we'd never meet again!"

Lorbul's heart sank as swiftly as a boulder dropped into an ocean. When he'd became Champion, the Wood Elf had ambushed him outside the Arena. For several weeks after, he'd been onto to him every time he left the Arena, prancing around him and screaming in delight. It had got so infuriating that Lorbul had actually issued a constraining order, banning him from the Arena district. It was just his luck that he'd run into the elf now.

"Oh, mighty Grand Champion, what can I do for you? Carry your things, a back massage maybe?" chirped the Bosmer excitedly, blue eyes wide with excitement.

"You can piss off," growled the Orc.

The Wood Elf ignored him, instead running a hand through his long golden hair gleefully and saying, "I've heard that you fought three opponents at once! Oh, I wish I could've been there to see it. Golly, it would've an amazing fight to behold!"

"Piss off!" repeated Lorbul, his yellow eyes narrowing with annoyance.

"Can I carry your weapon?" asked the elf, trying to prod the large dagger at the Orc's belt.

Lorbul slapped his hand way furiously, then reached forward and grabbed him by the throat. He stared at him coldly.

"Now you listen here, you little fucker," he snarled. "Back off! I don't like you. I never have! You are the single most annoying, idiotic, excuse for an elf I've ever met! If you annoy me one more time, I will personally rip out your innards and feed them to the crows. Have I made myself clear?"

"Can I polish your boots," squeaked the Bosmer.

Lorbul's face turned red. His grip tightened around the elf's throat. He drew his fist back and punched him in the face brutally. There was an explosion of blood and the mer toppled over, clutching his broken nose.

"I'm thorry if I thave offended thu,"he managed to mumble.

Lorbul resisted the urge to kick him and walked off; leaving the Bosmer sprawled awkwardly in the mud.

As he neared the Bloated Float, Lorbul's rough features softed slightly. He wasn't particularly handsome, even by Orsimer standards. An ugly scar ran down the left side of his face, courtesy of a Breton warlord that he'd encountered during his brief time in the Fighter's guild. He'd been incredibly lucky to escape at all.

The face wasn't made kinder by the rest of his face, his deep set eyes were yellow-bruises, large and bumpy nose marred with small scars, the result of various brawls over the years. His most defining feature, without a doubt, was his hair. Dark and silk-soft, it was slicked around the edges with sweat from his battle and the humid air from the city.

A few strides later, long, strong legs taking him quickly down the stone steps that led to the inn's door, Lorbul was standing outside the Bloated Float. He paused for a second, recalling the days he and Agronak had spent drinking and laughing on the boat. Thinking, the Grand Champion pushed the door open and stepped into the smoky tavern. The smell of roasted boar was thick in the air. Gamblers sat around tables, making bawdy jokes and spilling ale. Two Nords were busy armwrestling in a corner.

"What you lookin' at?" rumbled an Orc.

"You," replied Lorbul, turning to see the Float's bouncer, Graman gro-Marad leaning against a tavern wall, a spiked club at his hip and a smirk on his face. "You've got to be the most fucking pathetic excuse for a bouncer I've ever seen."

"Am I?" snarled Graman. He wore a dark padded shirt, and steel boots that reached his thighs. His face was rough and his cheekbones jagged, eyes sunken yellow bruises.

"Oh yes."

"It's still better than having to prance about an Arena all day!" spat the bouncer.

Both Orcs stared at each-other for a few seconds, eyes narrowed. Then they both burst out laughing.

"Good to see you, old friend, "said Graman slapping him on the back.

"You too," said Lorbul, flashing one of his rarer smiles.

"I've heard about your latest match," said the Orc. "Three at once, 'eh?"

"Three at once."

"Gods, I remember the days when you'd first started in the Arena. You didn't know which end of the sword to hold."

"If you say so."

Graman smiled. Like Lorbul, he wasn't exactly handsome, Orcs seldom were, but his face was unscarred, and his ponytail was slicked with sweat. He had a habbit of picking his teeth when bored, something that infuriated Lorbul to no extent.

"I suppose you'll want a room," ventured Graman after a few seconds passed.

"I will."

"Talk to Ormil, then. You know where he is."

"Of course," said Lorbul. "Well, I hope that when you're off duty, we can have a drink."

"I do hope so. We've got a lot of catching up to do."

The Grand Champion nodded and walked off towards the reception area. There, he found Ormil, entertaining a group of rogues. They all wore the same battered leather armour and hungry expressions.

"Some say that the Golden Galleon is still on this ship," the High Elf was telling them. "A statue said to be made entirely out of gold!"

"You sure about that?" an Imperial woman asked suspiciously. She had long curly brown hair, running halfway down her back. That made her look almost innocent. The large sword resting at her side ruined the effect slightly.

"Quite sure," said Ormil pompously.

"Hmm," grunted one of the rogues. "How do we know that this Elf isn't lying?"

"Watch your tongue," snapped the Imperial sharply. By the tone of her voice, Lorbul guessed she was the leader of her gang. That, and the steely determination in her bright blue eyes. "I'm sure that Ormil is telling the truth. And if not…" Her hand strayed to the enchanted longsword at her hip.

"Well," coughed Ormil, mopping his temple with a handkerchief. "Can I get you lot a room?"

"We'll take the biggest you've got."

"Good, good," muttered the High Elf, bending over behind his cabinet to find a key. After a few seconds of searching he reappeared, a key in his hands.

"There you go," he said, tossing it to the Imperial.

She nodded in thanks, passed him some gold, and gestured for her men to get up. They strode off, no doubt in search of this, 'Golden Galleon.'

As soon as they were out of earshot, Lorbul stepped forward and said, "Business isn't going well for you."

Ormil's head jerked up. "Wh- oh, Lorbul, it's you. What do you mean?"

"I mean that you didn't use to have to rely on stories about hidden treasure to get guests," rumbled the Orc.

The tall High Elf scowled bitterly. "Keep your voice down," he told Lorbul, annoyed.

"Fine," rumbled the Orc. "But the Golden Galleon?"

"I've heard worse stories," retorted Ormil indignantly. He was a typical High Elf. High slashes of cheekbones, narrow golden eyes, thin lips and wearing a regal expression, as if he were an Altmer noble, not a shabby innkeeper. He wore a flowing purple robes, as was the custom of many Altmer. Back on the Summerset Isle, if you weren't clad in silk, then you weren't worthy of being spoken to.

Lorbul shrugged his huge shoulders. "Still, those rogues looked pretty taken with it," he said. "They're not going to be happy when they realize it's all a hoax."

"I know, "said the elf, looking troubled. "It'll be fine…"

He didn't sound too sure.

"Whatever,"said Lorbul, shaking his head. If Ormil wanted to make up stories about the inn, it wasn't any of the Grand Champion's business. "I'm going to be staying here tonight. That is if you've got a room," he added.

Ormil brightened up at the thought of another customer. "Oh, don't worry, we've got plenty of rooms to spare. I promise, you won't have known a night's sleep like it."

He didn't realize how true that statement would turn out to be…

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**Well, that's done. I know it's not much, but I've got big plans for this fic. Bear in mind that updates will probably be very slow.**


	2. Captured

**Hello, thanks for all the reviews last chapter, they were much appreciated! :) **

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**Chapter Two: A Nightmare**

_Lorbul staggered backwards, blood dripping from many wounds. His battleaxe felt heavy in his h__ands, and he was almost overcome with exhaustion. He willed himself to stay focused. Not doing so could cost him his life. Some said that the Arena was only truly alive when a battle was raging, so it must have been bursting with life now. _

_Agronak snarled and slashed at the Orc, his bronze blade flashing in the sunlight. Lorbul winced, momentarily blinded, but managed raise his axe in time to block the attack. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed, human steel vs. dwemmer, sending vibrations up both their arms. _

_Lorbul took a step back hastily, not wanting to feel the bite of Agronak's broadsword. At such close range, the Grey Prince had the advantage over him, being able to thrust as well as slash. Lorbul had already had to abandon his warhammer, knowing that his mentor was far too quick for it. So instead, he wielded a steel battleaxe. It had cost him quite a bit, nowadays he only bought the best weapons and armour. The axe wasn't his favourite weapon, but it was good enough. Heavy and capable of dealing sever damage, but not so slow that you could see it coming from a mile away. _

_Agronak was on the attack again, darting forward and lashing out with his shield. It struck Lorbul on the side, stinging, not doing much damage, but providing a distraction. The Grand Champion's sword came whistling towards his head. Lorbul jerked back, the blade missing by an inch. _

_This time Lorbul lead the offence, his battleaxe whirling through the air. The Grey Prince was forced across the Arena, parrying the blows furiously. _

_He checked an overhead swing, and then ducked under another, weaving and bobbing away from the massive Orc. If he could tire Lorbul out, then he would be easy meat. _

_The other combatant became aware of this, and halted the assault, breathing heavily. He glanced at Agronak. The Grand Champion was bleeding, though not quite so much as his challenger. Still, beads of perspiration ran down his pallid face, and long black war braids were slicked back with sweat. His large brown eyes were burning with the fire of the battle. _

_The two combatants began to circle, both looking for an opening. Agronak darted forward with inhuman grace, feinted low, and then swung his blade in a wide arc at Lorbul's stomach. The large Orc slammed the dwarven sword aside and lashed out with his foot. It smashed against Agronak's solar plexus, driving all the wind from his body. The Grey Prince's eyes widened and he began to wheeze and cough, gasping for air. _

_Taking advantage of this, Lorbul threw himself at Agronak, hammering away at him relentlessly. The half Orc gritted his teeth at the onslaught, fending off the battleaxe with his shield. Inevitably though, his parry came too late, and the steel blade of the axe caught him in the side. He stumbled back, blood welling between the links of his chainmail. Lorbul swung his battleaxe again and hit him in the helmet. It flew off his head, landing a few feet away in the sands. Agronak groaned and keeled over, defeated. _

_Lorbul took a deep breath and looked down upon his opponent. _

_His mentor._

_His friend. _

"_Go-on," gurgled Agronak, blood pumping through his mouth. "F-finish-me, old friend. Give me a- g-good clean death," he managed. _

_Lorbul nodded with understanding, obeying the final wishes of the Champion. He raised his battleaxe one last time, and to the roars of the crowd, ended the reign of the Grey Prince…_

* * *

Lorbul gro-Kash opened his eyes wearily. He hated that dream! Wasn't it enough that he'd lived through it once? Did he really have to visit the fight every night? He'd tried everything to stop the dream. Hypnotism, magical amulets that prevented dreams. Nothing worked. The nightmare lurked in the shadowy corners of his memory, ready to pounce.

Lorbul's frown deepened. He could've sworn he could've heard loud waves, much louder than normal, almost as if they were at sea…

That couldn't be, though. The Bloated Float wasn't a moving vessel.

But there it was again.

The Orc threw the covers off his bed and got to his feet, hastily donning his Raiment of Valour. It took him longer than most to put on steel, being taller and bulkier than most at six foot seven. Some would say that armour was a hindrance outside of combat, but Lorbul disagreed. It had saved his life many a time. Cyrodiil was a dangerous place; you never knew when a knife wielding maniac would leap at you.

His room, Lorbul decided, wasn't too shabby. Sure, the floorboards were a bit rotten and creaked on touch, and the walls were completely bare, but it had a sort of homely feel to it.

As he strapped on his scarlet breastplate, the Grand Champion felt protective magic course through him, turning his skin as hard as steel. The Raiment of Valour was heavy armour, and covered in jagged spikes, but it still didn't offer as much protection as most. The enchantment made up for that. Next, the Orc tied on a swordbelt. His weapon was a large glass dagger; instead of his customary warhammer- he could hardly risk taking his most prized weapon to the shabbiest inn in the Waterfront.

The malachite dagger was a pretty little thing, though. He could see his face in the blade: rough, a dull green, and weathered by the elements. And his eyes, a deep yellow, flecked with orange. There was an Imperial saying, "Dark eyes, dark soul." But then, the Orc had never put much stock in sayings.

Finally, Lorbul pulled on a pair of sandals, tipped with steel spikes. The Arena's forgemaster was fond of spikes, unsettlingly so. Even so, Lorbul had to admit they came in handy. They put an edge to his kicks, if nothing else.

Clad in full armour, the Grand Champion strode to the door – hoping to uncover the source of the strange noise. To his growing surprise, the door was locked. Lorbul grunted in annoyance. Something was certainly afoot.

Instead of bothering to try and pick the lock, the Orc took a few steps back. A moment later, he barrelled at the door, smashing his shoulder against it.

There was an explosion of splinters, and the door was thrown off its hinges. It was made of weak pine, and had no chance against the bulk of the Grand Champion.

Lorbul walked through the wreckage, glass blade gripped tightly in his right hand.

"Eh, what you doing? Get back inside!"

Leaning against a set of barrels, scowling, was a Nord. His brown hair was short and cropped and his face covered in a bad case of acne. It looked like his nose had been broken many times. Judging by the tatty leather armour he wore, Lorbul guessed he was part of the rogues that that had been pestering Ormil last night.

"I heard waves?" rumbled the Grand Champion menacingly. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," snapped the Nord.

"Nothing?" Lorbul raised his eyes. "Then why was my door locked?"

"Err," stuttered the man, deciding on an answer. "It doesn't matter," he told the Orc. "Now get back in your room."

"But it does matter," pressed Lorbul. "How about you tell me what's going on right now, or I slit your throat?"

At this, he pointed his glittering blade at the Nord, diplomacy out of the window.

The man's eyes widened in fear, and then narrowed. "We'll see about that," he scoffed, wrenching a steel longsword out of its sheathe and holding it with both hands.

Screaming a war cry, he swung wildly at Lorbul, trying to end the fight quickly. The more experienced warrior sidestepped the strike, readying his dagger for a thrust.

Normally, the rogue would've had the advantage. In the cramped room below deck however, with barrels and rope lying around, he didn't. No, in the confined space, it was much better to have a shorter blade.

As the man soon found out. The malachite dagger punched through the leather as it were paper, lodging itself in the Nord's heart. The man collapsed spasming and flailing in agony, blood seeping over his chest. The rotten floorboards drank up the red liquid eagerly. A few seconds later, the man stopped twitching and was still.

Lorbul reached down to pull his dagger free. As he did so, he noticed a note sticking out of the dead man's pocket.

He grabbed it and unfurled the parchment. There was a hastily scribbled message on the note, not that the Orc could understand it. Inwardly, Lorbul cursed. Being illiterate could be extremely annoying! Even so he pocketed it; he had a feeling it would be useful later on.

A sudden thought hit the Champion. If he'd been locked up, surely the other people staying at the Float would've been as well. They would be locked up as well.

At this, Lorbul turned towards the door nearest to his room. There was probably somebody in there. He shoved the blade hilt deep into the lock and twisted. After a few attempts, the door swung open. He walked into the room, sweeping his gaze across it. A large oaken bed took up most of the room, but somehow a chest and a wardrobe had been squeezed in.

"Stay back!"

A slender young High Elf was crouching in the corner of the room, fists bunched. She wore tattered blue robes, tied together with a belt studded with glittering silver gemstones. Some of the stones were cracked, and some were misssing. Oddly, the girl didn't look scared. She looked insulted, as if she couldn't believe that somebody would have the audacity to capture her. She glared at the Orc with defiance in her honey coloured eyes and said, "Have you come to kill me?"

Her voice shook when she spoke, and she took a deep breath before talking again. "You shouldn't," she warned him. "I'm too important. And if you're going to… you're a coward. Only a coward would kill an unarmed girl. Are you a coward? You will be if you kill me," she told him. "So don't kill me!"

"You talk too much," said Lorbul. He looked at the mer for a second, then rammed his dagger back into its sheathe and said, "But no, I'm not here to kill you. Why on Nirn would you think that?"

The Elf sighed with relief, got to her feet and sat on the bed. She ran a troubled hand through her wavy golden hair. It was short, not common among the Altmer - only just brushing her shoulder blades.

"Gods, don't you know?" Without waiting for an answer, she ploughed on. "It all happened last night. You must have been asleep. My mother did always that the Orsimer sleep as heavy as they weigh. Anyway, I was drinking a glass of Tamika's, then suddenly, out of the blue, these bandits - wearing leather armour and brandishing steel swords – appeared and started killing people! Hauling them out of their seats and running them through, right then and there." She shuddered with distaste. "The only reason I'm alive is because I told them that I'm the daughter of a High Lord. I said that I would be far more valuable as a hostage."

Lorbul cocked an eyebrow at that. It would seem that the rogues were very gullible. First the Golden Galleon, then this…

"Are you actually the daughter of an Altmer lord?" he asked, already suspecting the answer.

She blushed and said, "No. I'm Rumare, from Alinor. My father was merchant, and my mother an apprentice at the Ataeum. "

The Orc had no idea what the Ataeum was, but she sounded proud when she said that her mother had studied there.

"Why did they leave me alive?" wondered Lorbul. "Why lock the door to my room, instead of slitting my throat?"

Rumare shrugged. "The only ones they spared were me and Ormil. Wait, no - they said something about a Grand Champion. I heard them say that he'd be worth his weight in gold. Maybe he's on-board?"

Lorbul gro-Kash stared at the elf in disbelief of her ignorance. _You'd think that she'd have realized who I am. I am wearing the bloody Raiment of Valour! What more could you ask for? A sign on my head saying, "Grand Champion?"_

"I'm the Grand Champion," said Lorbul slowly, as if he were talking to a simpleton.

She appeared to notice the blood red armour he was wearing for the first time. She gawped at him for a good five seconds, before saying," By Mara, you are, aren't you? The Tamriel terror, isn't it?"

"I prefer Lorbul," he said wryly.

Rumare stared at him again. She was pretty for her race, decided the Orc. Of course, he'd never been interested in non-Orcs - and never would be - but he guessed that most other races would like her slim figure and mischevious eyes. Still, she was barely more than a girl.

"So, you're you good at fighting, then?" she quizzed Lorbul.

"I wouldn't be Grand Champion if I didn't," stated the Orc.

She nodded, seemingly taking in the information.

"Well, you know what happens now?" asked Rumare.

"What?"

"You defeat the rest of the rest of the gang, regain control of the ship and save Ormil," said Rumare simply.

Now it was Lorbul's turn to gawp. "It may not be that simple," he told her, frowning. "I'm only one mer, there might be too many of them…"

"But you're the Grand Champion," pressed Rumare. Her jaw was set in a hard line, and the Orc had a sinking feeling that she wouldn't budge on this. "You should be able to defeat them! You don't want to be a coward?"

Lorbul silently prayed to keep his temper.

"No, I'm not a coward."

"Prove it," she insisted. "It's the only way."

The Orc considered it for a moment. "And if I die?"

"We'll get to that when we have to."

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***Cracks knuckles* Well, that was a tad annoying to write. Initially, I wanted to merge this chapter and the next chapter together, but I think it works better like this. **


	3. Blades and Jests

**Thanks for the reviews last chapter, they really helped! Do review elsewise I can't improve and make it more enjoyable for you…**

**Conor: Yes, I rather liked it myself.**

**Chapter Three: The Blackwater Brigands**

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Lorbul was halfway through the door when he heard her say, "I'm coming with you."

"Sorry, what?" said Lorbul disbelievingly, whirling around. Rumare was barely more than a child, and wearing a set of torn blue robes instead of armour. She couldn't expect to take on a gang of vicious rogues.

"I'm coming with you," she repeated.

Lorbul shook his head dismissively. "It's too dangerous."

"No it isn't," disagreed Rumare. "You stand a better chance as two than one."

"I stand a better chance when don't have to worry about protecting a bloody child," growled the Orsimer.

"I don't need protection," Rumare said defensively. "I can take care of myself."

"Then how did you end up captured in the first place?" asked Lorbul.

She scowled at him, silent for a few seconds. Then she spoke again – really, with her it was inevitable - the same look of determination in her eyes he'd glimpsed earlier, "We stand a better chance with two of us. Only an idiot would think otherwise."

"We may stand a better chance with two of us," admitted the Orc. "But you don't even have a weapon."

"I don't need to. My mother taught me quite a few spells!" she replied coolly, standing up off the bed. She was tall for an Altmer, but Lorbul still towered over her, her forehead at the same height as his chin.

"Prove it."

Rumare glowered at him, then closed her eyes and began to murmur an ancient enchantment. The ancestors of the Altmer, the Aldmer, had discovered magicka during their reign over Tamriel. It was that that allowed them to conquer the continent. Bronze, iron, steel… They were no match for the powers of frost, fire and shock. Much of the magicka the Ayleids used was lost, but many of the schools had survived.

Red Conjuration magic swirled up Rumare's arm and suddenly, she held a bound daedric shortsword in her hand. It was jagged, and pulsing with bloody red light, the edges finely honed and tempered by the fiery forges of the dremora. The High Elf ruined the effect slightly by yelping at the surprising weight of the bound weapon.

Lorbul couldn't resist a small smile. "A mighty weapon," he said.

"Shut up," Rumare huffed. "I'd like to see you utter a spell."

The Grand Champion was forced to admit she had a slight point. Orcs had never had a reputation as spellcasters. They probably never would. Still, he felt compelled to defend his race. "We don't need magicka," he retorted. "Orcs rely on their strength and their wits."

"And Altmer rely on intelligence and magical might," returned the High Elf. "How about you let me come with you, and we see which proves best?"

"Fine," Lorbul sighed, accepting defeat. She was too eloquent for him. "But don't blame me when you're coughing up your own blood."

* * *

Rumare hadn't been sure what to make of the strange Orc with the scar. He'd barrelled into her room, a blood covered malachite blade in his hands, and then was puzzled when she thought he wanted to kill her? Orcs were strange. The Orc, who called himself Lorbul, then proceeded to reveal that he was the Grand Champion of the Arena. She couldn't believe her luck. If he truly was the Grand Champion, then he wouldn't have any problems with slaying the rogues and saving her.

And he hadn't… Until she'd told him that she was going to help.

Rumare didn't see why he was so indignant that he go alone. True, she was still learning the ways of magic, but she was far from defenceless. She was quite strongly gifted in the school of Destruction magic. She'd trained at the Skingrad guild, after all. The home of destruction magic in Cyrodiil. It was said that even the Count was a dangerous sorcerer. Illusion came very easily to Rumare, too. As for the others, well, she was passable with Conjuration and Alteration, Mysticism was very tricky and she was pretty hopeless at Restoration. She found healing even the simplest wounds a challenge, let alone casting a ward.

To make up for her shoddy Restoration, the young mage usually carried a wide selection of healing potions. They were gone now, though. Rumare would just have to pray that she didn't receive any injuries.

In the end, Lorbul had relented and allowed her to help, so now here she was. As she followed the Orc out the door, the first thing she saw was corpse lying splayed out on the floor, chest awash with blood. A steel longsword lay next to him, presumably his weapon.

Rumare had heard it said that dead people looked like they were sleeping. This one didn't. The Nords eyes were wide and his mouth frozen in a scream. The High Elf felt her face go pale. She had to force herself not to gasp.

Lorbul noticed. "Not so sure you want to come with me now, 'eh?" he asked. "If you can't handle the sight of blood, maybe you should go back to your-"

"No, "interrupted the Elf. "I'm just surprised. Not squeamish," she lied.

The Grand Champion raised an eyebrow like he doubted very much doubted that.

"Why don't you take his weapon?" she asked suddenly. "Surely a longsword's better than a dagger?

Lorbul stopped and looked at her with exasperation. "Do you know nothing of Orcish culture?" he demanded. "We don't touch the weapons of those who've fallen to us in combat. To do so is to leave them unarmed in their afterlife."

"Alright," said Rumare, a little alarmed. "Err- If you're not going to take it, can I?"

He glared at her.

"I guess that a no, then?"

Lorbul didn't answer, continuing towards the door that led to a different part of the deck.

The door wasn't locked. The Orc kicked it open and strode through, readying his dagger. There was nobody there. Nothing aside from a few barrels- most likely filled with some old cheese wheels - some dusty wine bottles and a creaky old chair. A wooden ladder rested in the corner of the room. The ladder went to the tavern deck, Rumare knew. She watched Lorbul haul himself up the ladder, and then reached for it herself.

* * *

The tavern deck was a mess, reflected Lorbul. Silver plates and goblets had been overturned, wine splashed on the floor, tables on their sides. One thing struck the Grand Champion as odd: there were no bodies. According to Rumare, the rogues had slaughtered virtually everyone on-board, so there should have been corpses littered around the room…

"Hold there!"

The voice was a sharp as a whip crack. It came from a female Dunmer, who had moved out of the shadows of the room and had drawn her sword. She wore the leather armour that befitted their gang and a had a suspicious expression on her dark face. Her crimson eyes flashed with distrust.

"How did you get past Lynch," she demanded. The Grand Champion took it that the Nord he'd killed earlier was Lynch.

"I killed him," Lorbul said simply. "Now move out the way before I kill you," he warned her.

"Not likely," she snorted, lunging at him with her steel sword. The Orc slapped the blade aside and jabbed at her with his glass dagger. With the speed only an experienced fighter could possess, the Dunmer twisted away from the blade and leapt back out of reach.

"Stay back, Orc," she spat. "Unless you want to get skewered?" she asked, brushing her auburn hair out of her eyes.

Lorbul didn't reply. He'd never seen the point of trading quips while locking blades.

He slashed at her again, only for the Elf to leap back out of reach and laugh crazily. She whirled away from him, turning aside all his attacks with her longer sword.

The Grand Champion grunted in frustration.

"I've got this," said a cocky voice behind him. Rumare stepped forward, her blue robes swirling, daedric shortsword in one hand, and hurled a fireball at the rogue. It streaked towards her, and the Dark Elf only just managed to duck in time. As she ducked, the bandit slipped on a generous portion of slaughterfish pie and toppled over backwards.

Before she could blink, Lorbul was on her, kicking the sword out of her hands and punching her in the face. The Dunmer was momentarily stunned, and didn't resist as the Orc plunged a dagger into her chest.

She shuddered as blood began to spill from her mouth. There was an audible snap as Lorbul finished her off, twisting the ash skin's neck violently.

When the Grand Champion rose, Rumare looked pretty shaken, almost as pale as when she'd seen the first corpse. She couldn't seem to stop staring at the blood splattered on his armour. Lorbul resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He fought in close combat, blood was inevitable.

"We can't all hover on the edge of the battle, flinging spells," he informed the mage. "Some of us have to get our hands dirty."

"And some of us dislike behaving like savages," she sniffed.

Lorbul rolled his eyes and then knelt down beside the dead Dunmer.

"What on Nirn are you doing?" frowned Rumare.

"Searching him," replied the Orc gruffly.

"For what?"

"For this." He got back up, holding a note. The Orc crossed the room and shoved in into the High Elf's hands.

"Read this out," he ordered her.

"Why?"

"Just do it," said Lorbul sternly.

"If you insist." She raised the parchment into the light.

"It mentions that they're heading for Bravil," announced Rumare… "It also says something about the Golden Galleon? Any idea what that is?"

Lorbul felt his blood run cold. Of course. The hoax that Ormil had been spreading. The stupid little…

"Why did you ask me to read it out?" asked the High Elf, bemused. "Why didn't you do it, yourself?

"It doesn't matter."

"Tell me."

"It doesn't matter," said Lorbul again, louder this time. The High Elf had been scornful of him not being able to cast spells, if she found out that he was illiterate…

"Fine," relented Rumare sulkily. After a few moments passed, she asked, "Who do we kill now?"

"I'm not sure," admitted Lorbul.

"There's a bandit steering the ship," the High Elf told him. "If we do get to Bravil, there'll probably be more bandits waiting there. So we should probably kill the one steering the ship to stop us from arriving at Bravil. Though that'll mean we don't have anybody steering, and I don't know about you, but I've no idea how to run a ship. I don't want to end up drifting around the seas aimlessly until we starve."

The Orc nodded. "Ormil knows how to steer the ship," he mused. "If we can free him, we'll be able to get back to the Imperial City."

"Yeah," agreed Rumare, "But first we need to free Ormil. The rogues took him into his cabin," she remembered, pointing at the heavy oaken door behind the reception area.

Lorbul's expression hardened. "Come on," he rumbled. The Orc strode over to the door, only to find that it was locked. The door was also made of thick, polished oak, which was a strong and sturdy wood. Lorbul doubted he'd be able to knock it down. The lock was too complicated for him, too; his skill with lockpicking was really quite limited.

"What's the matter?" asked the mage incredulously.

"I can't get through the damn door," growled the Grand Champion.

Rumare smirked slightly, and then knelt down next to the lock. She whispered a spell, and her hand glowed faintly. There was a satisfying click as the cogs whirled and the door creaked open.

"One point to magic," said the Altmer smugly. Lorbul muttered darkly about the conceitedness of Altmer.

Nevertheless, the two mer walked through the doorway cautiously, blades at the ready. Rumare had drawn her summoned shortsword again, and was holding it like it was going to explode at any moment.

Ormil's cabin was pretty well decorated for an innkeeper. Velvet and silk tapestries adorned the walls; a large bed took up most of his bedroom, and beyond the bedroom was a dining table equipped with silver cutlery and fine large platters. Several bottles of Tamika's wine were usually strewn about the place.

Now though, the quarters were as much of a mess as the tavern deck . Ormil sat tied to a chair, a gag in his mouth and bruises and deep welts scattered across his face. An Imperial woman with long curly brown hair sat across from him, stroking the sword lying upon her lap. Her back was turned to the two intruders.

"Now, I'm going to take the gag off you in a second," she was saying. "And this time you're not going to lie. Where is the Golden Galleon?"

* * *

**And there you have it! Just to clarify, I really hate this chapter. It was hard to write, it's way too short, and many of it seemed forced. Argh! Well still, I hoped you enjoyed reading it more than I enjoyed writing it…**


	4. Selene

**Thanks for the reviews last chapter. Fifteen's not bad. Still, keep 'em coming! Bear in mind, those who favourited my fic, I can see who you are on my story's profile. Care to leave a review for this chapter?**

**Dualkatanas: (This is for everyone else, just so it's clear.) The reason Rumare used a bound shortsword instead of juggling fireballs is because she's inexperienced. People feel safer with a weapon, even if they don't know how to use it. And the sword's not entirely useless, as you'll see in this chapter…**

**Anyhow, enough of my rubbish. On with the chapter.**

**Chapter Four: The Beginning**

* * *

The lower section of the cabin served as Ormil's bedroom, and was lavishly decorated. A large bed took up most of the right hand side of the room, the covers woven out of finest silk. A glittering chandelier hung above them, bathing the chambers in a bright glow. Several paintings and tapestries hung on the walls, the Crystal Tower, the Artaeum, and many other Elvish monuments – a constant reminder of the Ormil's patriotism. Unlike the rest of the ship, the bedroom had windows. Round and small, but still allowing a small amount of moonlight to spill through. A bedside table stood next to bed, a bottle of dusty wine resting upon it.

The Orc glared at the back of the brigand's head.

"Imperial scum!" Lorbul's voice was deep and booming. The woman's head snapped around She leapt out of her chair and whirled to face the Orc, brandishing her longsword. He could see that it was forged from fine steel, the handle bound in blood red leather. The blade itself had silver etched into it, giving it the edge over spectral opponents, and glowed with a powerful red aura. The Grand Champion had seen enough magical weapons in his time to recognise an enchantment that drained vigour. One good hit from that could probably finish him. The chances were that if he fought her, in his current state, with no proper weapon, he'd wind up dead. A plan began to form in the Orc's mind…

"What are you doing in here?" asked the woman, angry and surprised. "I thought we'd locked you up?"

"Then you thought wrong, didn't you?" said Rumare cockily. "We've killed your pathetic little friends and now-"

"Shut up," Lorbul told her, interrupting midsentence. She scowled darkly at him.

"It doesn't matter how we got here," the warrior informed the Imperial. "What does matter is that I know where the Golden Galleon is."

"You do?" Her features scrunched up with surprise as if she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing. She was quite short for an Imperial, barely up to the Orc's chest. If it wasn't for her ears and stocky build, he would've guessed that she was a Bosmer. Her face was' heart shaped', and framed with curly brown hair. Bright blue eyes glared up at him suspiciously, as if he were the bandit and she the kidnapper. Her leather armour wasn't exactly newly crafted, numerous scratches and scars were scattered across it, giving the indication she was no stranger to combat.

At this, Rumare frowned and opened her mouth, no doubt about to spoil things by making a careless remark. Lorbul glared at her, and she closed it reluctantly.

"Yes, I do know where the Golden Galleon is," he continued. In the background, the warrior glimpsed Ormil, looking confused, or as confused as he could look while gagged. "Ormil talked about it often," said the Orc. "I remember him telling me that it was worth more than the float itself."  
If the short woman's face had been scrunched up before, now she looked like a suspicious weasel. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't want to die. That enchanted sword of yours," he gestured to the fine steel blade she held, "looks to be pretty powerful. I don't want to risk dying."

"But – but you're the Grand Champion? Why would you not wish to fight?" She sounded shocked.

"I want to stay as the Grand Champion," explained the warrior. "No point risking my life when I can just tell you where the Galleon is."

The woman frowned at him, not quite believing what she'd just heard.

_Come on,_ thought the Orc. _Take the bait. _

"Okay," she said slowly. "Fine. I'll trust you… For now."

"Good choice," remarked Lorbul.

"We'll see. Now, tell me like you promised: where's the Galleon?"

"There." The Orc pointed to a bookcase resting against a wall. A wax candle flickered dimly on one of the shelves, providing light to see the names of the books. There were so many copies piled up, the bookcase looked liable to collapse any second.

"A bookcase?" asked the Imperial.

"A bookcase," confirmed Lorbul. "Press your hand against the book in the bottom corner and it will slide aside to reveal it."

She looked like she doubted that, but knelt down all the same.

"Which book do I press?" she muttered.

"It's the faded copy of Darkest Darkness," advised the Grand Champion. She leant closer, squinting at the books. _Now. _Lorbul raised his dagger, testing the balance of it. Then he threw it. The malachite blade came flashing towards the rogue, glinting in the candle light. If she hadn't jerked her head aside at the last moment, the dagger would've sliced through her skull. Maybe she realized how ridiculous the idea was? Maybe she sensed something? Maybe she heard him raise the dagger? Whatever reason, the Imperial threw herself aside, and the glass weapon buried itself in a worn copy of Immortal Blood with a thud.

"You lied!" spat the bandit, striding across the room and bringing up her enchanted longsword for a strike.

_Shit,_ thought Lorbul. That hadn't gone well. She lunged at the Orc, attempting to open his stomach. Lorbul threw himself side, so her blade only grazed his ribs. He winced as he felt exhaustion wash over him, his stamina being drained away by the sword. Nevertheless, he aimed a wild punch at the woman, who ducked under it easily and hopped back, readying her for another lunge.

Waiting paitently, Lorbul brought up his fists into guard and settled into a combat stance. He'd fought hand to hand before. It wasn't his preferred method, but sometimes it was enivitable. When the Imperial darted forwards again, he sidestepped her strike and tried a right hook. She ducked under it just in time, but couldn't dodge his second punch, a vicious uppercut which caught her in the jaw and sent her staggering backwards.

Taking advantage of this, the Orsimer threw himself forward, swinging both fists at the same time. Before he could close in on her however, she began slashing her sword wildy, fending him back.

"Do something," Lorbul commanded Rumare urgently, who stared at him blankly before muttering a spell and hurling a small fireball at the rogue. She didn't even have to dodge. The fiery projectile streaked past her by a considerable length, turning a chair in the dining area into a smoking wreck.

_Shit, shit, shit!_

The Grand Champion bit his lip in annoyance, couldn't the girl do anything right? The Imperial was advancing again. She surged forwards, aiming a powerful swing at the his head. He ducked under it and she darted low, thrusting her blade at his stomach.

This time he couldn't knock the sword aside. It plunged deep into his gut, the enchantment burning through all his magical shielding. She ripped the blade free, letting his warm blood gush out onto the floor. Darkness swarmed the Orc's vision and he fell sideways, landing in a crumpled heap on Ormil's bed. It creaked as it took the weight of the huge Orsimer… leaving Rumare alone with the vicious and vengeful Imperial.

* * *

Rumare decided that Lorbul may had been right when he'd said she shouldn't come with him. If she hadn't, then she wouldn't be in this situation right now. Trapped alone in a cabin with a bloodthirsty – and much more experienced – criminal. But no, she'd had to be stubborn as usual, and insist to come with him.

"Stay back," she stammered at the bandit.

"Or what?" grinned the woman.

"I'll- I'll kill you," shouted Rumare, trying to mask her fear with anger.

"No you won't," scoffed the bandit. "When you get to Aetherius," she told Rumare, "tell your ancestors that Selene of the Blackwater Brigands sent you!" And with that, she leapt at the Elf.

Rumare reacted without thinking. She raised her bound shortsword, blocking Selene's attack. She felt vibrations shudder up her arm, almost making her drop her sword. The rogue hissed and leapt back, landing in a crouch, her blade poised for another attack. Rumare thrust her hand out, a small fireball exploding from it. It missed the rogue's face, instead streaking towards her hand. Selene shrieked as fireball exploded, two of her fingers were blown to pieces, and the Blackwater Blade went flying out of her grip. It landed a few metres away from her, the handle scorched annd burnt.

The young mage muttered another incantation and a lightning bolt stabbed out of her palm, catching the Imperial full in the chest. Lightning tore through the Selene's body, a hundred volts of electricicty coursing through her blood. After spasming uncontrolably for a few seconds, the rogue collasped onto her back - most definitely dead.

Rumare had always assumed that magicka was a much cleaner way to kill than using a weapon. She'd figured that swinging an axe through someone's head would be a lot messier than simply frying them with lightning. She was wrong. The stench of burned flesh clung rebelliously to her nostrils, making her eyes water. As she caught a glance of her enemy's ruined corpse, the Altmer felt the bitter taste of bile in her mouth. She keeled over, vomiting all over the floor.

When she'd finally finished, Rumare stumbled to her feet. _Lorbul! He's dying, _she remembered, worried. She'd only just met the Orc, but she wasn't heartless enough to let him bleed to death. Rumare knew she couldn't heal him with her own magicka, she could barely close a scratch on her finger, let alone a gaping sword wound. Her use of Destruction magicka had drained her, too. Her magical pool had been significantly reduced, the lightning bolt had been more powerful than she'd meant.

A thought stuck her. _Potions._ Selene had been an experienced warrior; she must've carried some around with her, she'd been in enough fights to realize how useful they were. Holding her and over her nose so she couldn't smell the scorched body, Rumare hurried over to her enemy's corpse, scanning it for any vials.

She was in luck. A small blue potion hung from the rogue's belt. Rumare hastily slashed at the belt with her summoned shortsword, and the vial rolled free across the floor.

Letting her sword fade back to Oblivion, she snatched up the vial, and hurried over to the bed where Lorbul lay dying. It didn't look good. Blood leaked out his mouth, and the silken sheets beneath him had turned scarlet. Grimacing, she forced herself to look at the wound. It wasn't as bad as it could've been. The sword had punctured his stomach, and missed his spine. No vital organs hurt, then. If the blade had entered a few inches higher, it would've gone through his heart and he would be dead all ready. Feeling nauseous, the Altmer prised open the Orc's jaws, and uncorked the potion with an audible pop. Rumare gingerly shoved the opened vial into his mouth, and tilted it, letting the restorative liquid flow down his throat. Slowly but surely, the wound started to heal. The flesh knitted itself together, then turned into a long white scar, which finally faded away into nothingness, leaving new unblemished green flesh in its place. Pulling the potion out of Lorbul's mouth, Rumare let out a sigh of relief.

She had one more task, however. Using the last of her magical energies, the Altmer summoned a delicate daedric dagger, and staggered over to Ormil.

His face bore many welts and bruises. His left eye was blackened, and his left eyelid slit open. Blood dripped unceremoniously down his nose, and his normally slicked back hair was matted with grime, and sweat. Thick ropes bound his hands behind his chair, and he wore a tattered gag over his mouth, preventing him from screaming.

Rumare felt disgusted. She didn't exactly look her best; what with sweat dripping from her long golden hair, her robes in tatters, and her normally honey coloured eyes bloodshot and tired. No Elf deserved a fate like Ormil's. With her last bit of strength, she ripped the gag from his mouth and stepped behind the innkeeper's chair, pressing her summoned blade against the ropes. They parted easily, no match for tempered Daedric steel, and Ormil was free. He exhaled quickly, as if testing if he could still breathe.

"T-thank you," he muttered.

"No problem," she felt herself say, blinking. She was very tired, she realized. She glanced down at her robes, and saw that, to her dismay, they were splattered with blood. Rumare cringed, beginning to feel sick again. Suddenly, the world started spinning. The last thing she saw before darkness was the rapidly approaching floor.

* * *

Rumare awoke to find herself in a bed. Judging by the sound of the waves, she was at sea. She frowned, and then, with a groan, remembered. If it weren't for the blood on her tattered robes, she'd thought it'd been a dream. But no, she was sure. She remembered fighting the Blackwater Brigands, healing Lorbul, freeing Ormil, and then… passing out?

Maybe it'd been the stress, the nerves, and the violence? Whatever it was, she had definitely fainted. The slim Altmer sat up in her bed, pushing back the covers slightly, and looked around. Bare wooden walls, a small wardrobe, a narrow door, a flickering torch; not much to get excited about. Her hand instinctively went to her pocket. There was nothing there. It was gone. The Altmer groaned for the second time that day. How could she lose it? The most important possession in her life!

Suddenly, the door creaked open. Lorbul stepped through, looking tired. His yellow eyes, normally flashing and alert, were dull and sickly. She supposed it was the aftereffects of the restorative potion.

"At least you don't have a knife with you this time," she remarked. For a second, the Orc threatened to smile.

"Huh," he grunted. "Look, when I regained consciousness, Ormil told me what happened… Told me how you killed that Imperial bitch. How you healed me. I thought I'd say thanks." He grimaced at this, as if it hurt him to say it. "I wouldn't be alive if you hadn't come along."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Guess I proved that magic is better than melee?"

"Good to see you're as cocky as ever," rumbled Lorbul sourly.

"I fainted. It's not like I went into a coma," she retorted. Before he could respond, she asked another question. "How did I get here? The last thing I remember is passing out in Ormil's cabin…"

"When you fainted Ormil woke me up. After I dispatched the last brigand, I carried you through to the nearest room."

"And how did you 'dispatch' him?"

"I pushed him overboard," said the Orcish warrior simply. "I'm still not in my best state from my wounds, but I can still kill a dishonourable cur with relative ease. Ormil's steering the Float now. "We're heading back to the Waterfront. We strayed quite far off the coast, but I think we should be back in a few hours. "

Rumare nodded. "Good." A few seconds passed. Another question jumped to the front of her mind. "Is Ormil alright?"

"Well, he's not dead," replied Lorbul. "He's been tortured quite badly, at least for an Altmer. He's not used to such pain. He was an innkeeper, not a soldier. He's still partially in shock. It's been a few hours, but he seems to have mostly recovered. Whether or not they'll be any long term impacts, I'm not sure." He shrugged. "To be honest, I don't exactly feel sorry for him. If he hadn't spun his little tale, we wouldn't be here. Graman would still be alive." Bitterness entered the Orc's voice.

"Graman?" she asked Lorbul with characteristic bluntness. "Who's he?"

"My friend," grunted the Orc. He was a bouncer here. The Brigands cut him down. They didn't think that an Orc would know about the Galleon."

"The Galleon?" echoed Rumare.

Lorbul sighed wearily, and then proceeded to explain how the Golden Galleon was a hoax about a golden statue said to be hidden on the ship, a rumour that Ormil had spread to try and encourage more customers to stay at his inn and attract more attention. He'd succeeded in that, at least. Unfortunately for him, it'd attracted the wrong sort of attention. The attention of the Blackwater Brigands. They'd heard about the 'Golden Galleon' and decided that they were going to find it. To make sure nobody snitched on them, they'd killed all the unneeded people on-board and made off with the ship. All the corpses of the people they'd killed had been thrown into the ocean.

"How do you know all this?" asked the High Elf.

"I've knew about Ormil's little story before the Brigands attacked." The Orc's mouth curled in distaste. "The notes that the Brigands carried revealed the rest." He snorted with contempt. "How can someone be so stupid that they actually write out all their plans and carry them around with them?"

Rumare was inclined to agree. "Mara, I'm hungry," she realized suddenly. "Is there something I can eat?"

"What do you think I am? Your bloody servant?" muttered Lorbul. Nevertheless, he walked out the room and returned a minute later holding a loaf of bread. He handed it to the Elf, who devoured it gratefully.

"Thanks," she grunted.

"Why do you swear by the Divines?" asked the Orc as she sat up in her bed, eating. "You said you were from Ailnor?"

She froze, the loaf halfway from her mouth, face darkening. "You do not want to ask that," she scowled. "Let's just say I don't exactly agree the customs of the Summerset Isle."

"Why?"

She glared at him in response.

Lorbul shrugged his huge shoulders. After a while, he seemed to remember something. He took a step closer to the bed. He clearly wanted to ask her a question. It looked like he'd been waiting a long time to ask it.

"I've been meaning to ask," he stated, confirming her suspicions. "When you passed out, something fell out your pocket. I didn't notice it at first, but as I bent down to pick you up, I saw it. " The Orc pulled out a large glittering golden amulet, complete with a huge fiery ruby embedded in the centre. Rumare's large amber eyes widened as she looked at the ancient artefact.

"It's mine," she stuttered, at loss for words for once. "My grandfather gave it to me."

"Really? I didn't realize that your grandfather was the Emperor. Don't lie to me. That's the Amulet of Kings…"

* * *

**And there we are, at the end of another chapter. I didn't hate this chapter as much as the last one, but it's still not good – in my opinion. The last bit felt forced. Terribly so. Still, at least now the Blackwater Brigand quest's over. Cue sighs of relief. XD**


	5. Fire and Steel

"**War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend."**

**J.R.R Tolkein.**

* * *

**Chapter Five: Fire and Steel**

Savlian Matius couldn't remember the last time he had a proper sleep. His dark hair, cut short in the military fashion, was splattered with the dried blood of the Daedra, his once proud and well-shaped face was coated in grime and there were dark circles around his eyes, betraying the exhaustion he was trying to keep buried.

If it wasn't for the fact that Count needed him, the Imperial would be down in the barracks now, trying to catch a few hours of sleep. But Count Ormellius Goldwine _did _need him, and Savlian wasn't one to shirk his duties. So, here he stood, in front of Ormellius, giving the full recount of his latest battle.

The Count sat upon a tall backed chair, his expression terse. For a man of seventy-seven years, he was reasonably well built, his skin was without too many wrinkles and the majestic way he held himself seemed to inspire loyalty. If not for his wavy white hair, one might have guessed that he was a good ten years younger. His lips were cracked and dry, though this was a recent development. The blazing fires that the Daedra had brought with them had affected all of them in ways. Instead of the normal elegant clothes that he normally wore, Ormellius had donned a shining golden set of newly forged armour that had clearly never felt the bite of a longsword. Savlian had to admit, the noble looked out of place in it. But that was to be expected. The Count was known for his cunning politics, for his ability to keep order, not for his combat prowess. Despite this, he gripped the handle of the gilded spatha at his hip determinedly. Ormellius' silvery blue eyes kept flickering - never looking at one place for long. It was almost as though he expected the Daedra to march through the castle doors at any second or maybe he just wanted to savour the beauty of his main hall before it was destroyed.

With towering white pillars in each corner, the floors layered with thick satin carpets, the walls lavishly decorated with the various portraits of the Count's ancestors and large golden banners there was certainly a lot to savour. The sigil on the banners was a snarling wolf, the very same wolf that was stamped on the front of Savlian's tattered surcoat.

"It's not good news," the officer reported grimly. "The Daedra have surrounded the city with Oblivion Gates. It's impossible to get any word out of Kvatch that we're in trouble. The Legion won't be able to answer out call for help. We're isolated."

The Count grimaced. The Gates were portals, supposedly to Oblivion itself. Soon after they'd appeared, Daedra of every kind had begun to pour out of them.

"They've also breached the East Wall," continued Savlian. "We managed to get a good section of the civilians out, but they'd slaughtered most. We pushed them back, but most of the area is in ruins. We wouldn't have been able to get there in time if it wasn't for the gladiators. The Grand Champion led them and they held the Daedra at bay till we arrived. The Grand Champion has offered to help hold the city."

Ormellius nodded thoughtfully. The Grand Champion, Caspian Venti, was a powerful fighter. He was widely acclaimed the best spearman in all of Cyrodiil. The Imperial wielded a legendary Glaive named Hero's Fury and had slain countless foes in the Arena.

"One man cannot turn the tide," remarked the old Imperial, but even as he said the words, there was a glimmer of hope in his voice.

"No," agreed the officer. "But he can help. When the smallfolk see the Grand Champion fighting alongside us, it will certainly boost their morale."

Ormellius nodded again. "And what of the rest of the guard?" he enquired. "How many casualties have you suffered?"

Savlian's face darkened. "Too many. We still number at over five-hundred, but another few days and that might change."

"How long can you last?"

"It's hard to say. The only thing that's sure is that if we can't defeat the Daedra on our own," Savlian replied gravely.

A few seconds passed. The Count scratched the wiry white hairs on his chin, struck by a sudden thought. "Do we have any battlemages? Have any joined the cause?"

"The Mages Guild had sixty staying with them when the invasion began," responded the younger man. "Seven of them were taken by surprise and killed earlier, but the rest are willing to fight for us."

The nobleman leaned forwards in his chair. "A few dozen battlemages and the Grand Champion on our side… We may win this battle yet."

Savlian was saved from pointing out that the Daedra's forces were endless and immortal, whereas theirs were not, by the sudden creaking of the castle doors opening.

A guardsman hurried through towards the pair, his steel half-helm scorched and dented, armour cracked and his shield pitted with scars. Large blue eyes stared nervously out at them from under his helmet.

"Sir," he said, "another Oblivion Gate has opened."

"So?" frowned Mattius. "New Gates open all the time."

"It's different," insisted the man "This time the Gate's bigger. More soldiers are marching out of them. Thousands. It's right outside the main gates of the city. "

"Bloody hell," snarled Savlian, reaching for his sword.

"That's not the worst part." The guard licked his lips with anxiety. "There's some sort of machine… It's immense. Almost like a massive obsidian battering ram. The tip of it glows with destructive energies and it spits fireballs the size of houses. It could lay waste to Kvatch in minutes. The scholars are calling it a Siege Crawler."

* * *

Alexandre Vonius was frustrated. The seventeen year old Imperial paced along the length of his kitchen, fuming. In truth, the kitchen was more of an eating room. A large table stood in the middle, cluttered with empty wine bottles and dirty plates, a cooking area in one corner and a small flickering fireplace in the other. The young man oft enjoyed watching the flames, hearing them crackle as they devoured the logs hungrily. The walls of the room were bare; aside from the torches. No banners, no tapesteries, no declarations of wealth.

But that was to be expected. The Vonius brothers were simple folk. A guardsman and his younger sibling, the hunter. Separated by four years, and yet as different as any kin could be. They shared the same coal black hair and piercing blue eyes, but that was where the similarities ended. Alexandre was slim where Ilend was muscular, quick where the older brother was strong, rash where Ilend was calm and favoured a bow instead of a broadsword. They were loyal and good to each-other but, like most families, they were prone to arguments.

Such an argument had occured earlier. Ilend had been strapping on his armour in his bedroom, preparing for the daedric assault on the city. Like the kitchen, the room wasn't exactly luxurious. The bed was made out of cheap wood and thin cloth blankets, the wardrobe old and creaking. Weapons were scattered across the room, mainly swords and pikes. A narrow window gave a reasonable view of the city's castle. Ilend was halfway through fastening on his sword belt when Alexandre walked in, clad in fur and leather, a silver bow and a quiver full of arrows slung across his back. The guardsman had taken one look at his brother, then said cooly, "You're not defending the city. Don't be ridiculous. You're seventeen, not yet a man."

The archer had spluttered angrily, "Why not? I'm one of the best hunters in Kvatch!"

"Hunting is different to war," Ilend told him gravely. "Your target fights back. Tries to kill you. Deer aren't the same as Daedra."

"I can fight," Alexandre had tried to tell him, but the burly guardsman wouldn't budge. And so his older brother had left to join Savlian Mattius and the rest of the guard in the main plaza outside the city gates, leaving the slender huntsman behind in their house. Alone.

Their parents had died when he was just a small boy and as long as the Imperial could remember, Ilend had been looking out for him - doing the job of a father, brother and mother all at the same time. When the older man had become eighteen, he'd left their orphanage and joined the Kvatch Guard. As soon as he'd had enough money, he'd bought a house and whisked his brother out of the orphanage to live with him. Ilend didn't have to buy the house, the barracks at the Count's castle had sleeping quarters, but he'd wanted to give Alexandre a better home. There was much that the younger brother was grateful towards his brother for, but sometimes he could be quite overprotective.

Now was one of those times. Alexandre stopped pacing, glancing at his bow that stood beside the door, tempting him. For a second he considered running off to help defend the city. No matter what Ilend said, Daedra were as succeptable to arrows as deer. He would be fine.

Making his decision, the young man hastily strapped a few throwing knives to the studded belt looped around his fur armour and picked up his bow and quiver, opening the kitchen door and walking down the hallway to the front door.

As he'd suspected, it was locked. Alexandre rolled his blue eyes and picked the lock with relative ease. The beggars around Kvatch were scarily good at theivery and lockpicking, and they had taught the Imperial a thing or two. It had cost him a few Septims, but it had been worth it.

He stepped out onto the streeet, observing the dark red sky and feeling the heat that the Oblvion Gates brought with them slam into him. Alexandre headed off towards the plaza, determined to protect his city - at any cost.

* * *

When Savlian Matius had joined the Kvatch Guard, he'd never assumed that at one point in his career that he'd have to stand in front of the main gates to his city, nearly six-hundred warriors behind him, all expecting a speech. The archers stood at the sides of the plaza, bows drawn. The battlemages and gladiators held the front line, with the majority of the Kvatch Guard behind them. The Chapel of Akatosh stood on the right hand side of the plaza, mages gathered around it, ready to heal the wounded. The Officer turned around, silver longsword raised high – a defiant gleam in his brown eyes.

"They want to take our city!" Savlian yelled, voice audible over the war cries that echoed beyond the main gates. "They want to rape our daughters! They want to kill our sons and burn our houses! They want to slaughter every last one of us so that they can go back to Dagon and tell him that Kvatch is no more. Well, I'll tell you what: I don't think that's going to happen!"

The guardsmen slammed their spears against the ground and roared in agreement.

"What's going to happen," continued Matius, "is that we're going to take our swords and shove them through their chests. We're going to crush his attack, force them back to Oblivion and show those black-hearted sons of bitches that Kvatch doesn't bend the knee to evil scum like Dagon!"

The troops went into overdrive, thrusting their weapons into the air and bellowing 'for Kvatch' loudly, drowning out the Daedra.

Suddenly, the main gates to the city smashed open, spraying splinters and hunks of steel in every direction. Out of the ruined doors poured Daedra of every description. Dremora, daedroths, scamps, clanfears - too many to count.

"Archers!" bellowed the Savlian, hurrying back to his troops and taking his place beside fellow guardsman Ilend Vonius.

Almost immediately, the air was filled with the twanging of bows being fired. Arrows sprouted from the Daedra's throats, the volleys of projectiles killing dozens with seconds. Moments later the battlemages joined the assault, hurling fireballs and sending lightning bolts sycthing through the ranks. Dremora archers returned fire, but the battlemages managed to destroy most arrows before they reached their targets. Even so, they couldn't blast all of them to dust and a few guardsmen dropped to the floor, daedric bolts lodged in their chests.

A few minutes passed, Dagon's casualties mounting. Large piles of corpses were strewn around the entrance to the city.

"This is too easy," muttered the Imperial Officer. "We haven't even needn't to engage them in the melee."

"Aye," agreed Ilend. He'd lost his helmet earlier on, but had never had the time to visit the armoury for another, so his dark black hair flowed freely down to his neck. His blue eyes were hard, determination was evident on his face.

Savlian frowned. "Where's this Siege Crawler they told me about?" he asked. "Why are they flooding us with troops than using it?"

Almost as if the question had summoned it, the monstrous daedric machine came into sight. It was visible through the smashed gates, about fifty away from the city. It moved incredibly slowly, its many obsidian legs creaking as it groaned forwards. The guard's description earlier had been accurate; the Siege Crawler did indeed look like a massive obsidian battering ram. Glimmering Daedric runes spiralled all over it and the tip began to glow with a harsh light.

Every instinct in the Imperial's body screamed for him to duck. A huge fireball exploded from the Siege Crawler, streaking across the tortured sky towards Kvatch. It rocketed over the walls of the city, striking the roof of the chapel. The very ground seemed to shake with the impact, and when the smoke cleared, a large smouldering section of the building and the spire lay on street, sealing the plaza off from the rest of the city. Fire spread from the ruins to the houses on the other side of the road, setting them ablaze.

"No," gasped Ilend.

The Siege Crawler fired again, this time hitting the wall next to the wreckage of the city gates. The wall was blown apart, huge blocks of super-heated stone sprayed across the plaza, crushing many of the soldiers.

"Battlemages!" roared the Imperial. "Attack that Siege Crawler! Throw everything you have at it! Do anything you can to stop it!"

They reacted quickly, ignoring the Daedra surging towards them and aiming their destructive magicka at the immense maelstrom of obsidian and power. The bloody sky split open as pillars of fire rained down the machine, blasting craters the size of horses on it. The Siege Crawler didn't show any signs of damage however, as the tip began to light up again, preparing for another attack. Before it could fire, though, a huge icy blue cloud matierilized above it. The cloud darkened, then exploded with frost energy. The fireball that shot out of the Siege Crawler was turned to water vapour and the machine itself slowed down considerably, the ice freezing large portions of it in place.

With the battlemages not concentrating on the Daedric forces, and the archers nearly out of arrows, it became obvious that soon they'd have to lock blades with the Daedra. Signalling for the gladiators and the Kvatch Guard to march forwards, Savlian brandished his silver longsword, raised his shield, and charged towards the ruins of the city gates.

The two armies slammed into each-other, many dying in the first few seconds. A dremora mage appeared in front of the Imperial Officer, orange flecked eyes glinting with malice. He raised his hands, both of which began to glow with blue-white light. Savlian dodged out the way of the frost spell's numbing grasp and charged at the mage, thrusting his sword through the dremora's stomach. The black robes he was wearing provided no protection and the silver blade punched through them with ease. Savlian placed a foot on the Kynreeve's chest and kicked him off his sword, already spinning to block a mace swing with his shield. The mace belonged to a fearsome looking Kynval, who wore full Daedric plate and had small bronze horns jutting out of his inky coloured head. The Kynaz lunged at Matius quickly, attempting to shatter his ribcage. Savlian parried the strike just in time and felt vibrations tremor up his arm. He took a step back and slashed at the dremora, who backed up onto the blade of a guardsman's claymore.

Savlian nodded in thanks to the soldier, then threw himself aside as a daedroth charged towards them. The guardsman didn't react as quickly and had his head torn off by the massive crocodile Daedra. The daedroth whipped its head round towards the Officer, snout splattered with the blood of his comrade. Savlian let out a wordless cry of fury and swung his silver longsword up at the vile creature's face, cutting its jaw in half. He smashed his shield into the monster's grey, scaly chest, overbalancing it and sending it staggering backwards.

The Imperial then darted forwards and stabbed the daedroth in the heart, ripping his sword free with a spray of crimson. He turned away as the Daedra died, already seeking a new opponent. He didn't have to wait long. A pair of eager pair of clanfear came rushing at him, attacking from both sides. Savlian hacked off the one on the left's head, then kicked the other one hard - sending it flying several metres through the air, smashing into a surprised Xivilai. They both went down.

The Officer realized that he was panting, sweat running down his forehead. As he watched, the Grand Champion leapt past him, dueling furiously with a Valkynaz that also favoured a spear. Caspian Venti looked almost tame compared to the Daedra, who towered a foot taller than him, fiery eyes blazing with anger. A large set of impressive horns curled out of his iron grey hair, and his red heavy armour was decorated with whirling daedric runes. And yet Caspian was giving it his best, green eyes cold, his pale face set in a hard line.

Savlian was jolted back to the action as a scamp launched itself at him, claws raised. The Imperial instinctively raised his battered shield to block it. The filthy creature bounced off, snarling. _It looks sort of like a goblin, but brown and skinnier,_ thought Savlian aimlessly as he swung at it, severing the head with a splatter of blood. The scamp's decapitated head rolled away, every bit as hideous as when it had been attatched to its body.

The Imperial was forced to duck as a frost spell crackled towards him, freezing the air above him. He turned towards the caster, a robed dremora, who was already preparing another spell. A blast of heat energy roared towards Savlian, ready to engulf him. The Officer threw himself tp the ground, the flames narrowly missing him. Even so, his back was scorched, the surcoat protecting him from the worst of the fire, and when he rolled to his feet the Imperial winced as he felt the pain flare up. Savlian attacked again with newfound anger, his blade blurring as he dodged a wave of telekinesis and lunged at the mage, silver longsword slicing open his chest. The dremora stumbled backwards, tattered black robes awash with blood. The mage's fiery eyes, blazing with fury, turned fearful, and he clutched the wound. Blue restoration magic began to swirl around him but before it take effect Savlian had darted at him and slashed off the daedra's hand. He then kicked the mage in the stomach, causing him to keel over, groaning. The Officer buried his blade deep into the dremora's skull, killing it instantly.

Ripping his sword free, Savlian realized that he was now standing outside the city, having fought his way through the ruins of the main gates. A portal to Obilvion gilmmered a few metres away from him, new squads of Daedra stomping out of it every few minutes. The portal was ten feet tall and fashoned out of darkness, jagged edges protruding from it. The gateway to the deadlands was filled with bright flames - and it puzzled the Imperial how the enemy had managed to pass through it without being incinerated.

The Siege Crawler, despite the battlemages' best efforts, was growing closer, only a about fifty feet away. The daedric steel monstrocity was pitted with craters and several places bore the smoking scars of lightning bolts and yet it creaked forwards, the tip beginning to emit an evil glow.

Savlian felt like closing his eyes. _What has Kvatch done to deserve this? Answer me that, Akatosh. If you're up there..._

* * *

**A/N: Sorry about taking so long posting this chapter. I enjoyed writing the battle immensely, but before that... bleh. Not good. Anyhow, remember to review. It really helps and makes it more likely to review your fic. If you've bothered to read this far, then you can be bothered to review. Rant over, I've also changed the names of the last few chapters. Personaly, I prefer the new ones. Anyhow, I hope you liked the chapter. **


	6. Loose Ends

**A/N: Apologies for the ridiciulous update length. I have, however, rewritten the first chapter, wrote a one-shot and improved a lot of the characters. If you take a look at chapter one you'll see that Lorbul is a cold character who doesn't understand people so well and has barely any sense of humour (I mean to edit the other chapters to make him not so out of character in them). Quote for today...**

**_"I never win anything," Dolorous Edd complained. "The gods always smiled on Watt, though. When the wildlings knocked him off the Bridge of Skulls, somehow he landed in a nice deep pool of water. How lucky was that, missing all those rocks?"_  
_"Was it a long fall?" Grenn wanted to know. "Did landing in the pool of water save his life?"_  
_"No," said Dolorous Edd. "He was dead already, from that axe in his head. Still, it was pretty lucky, missing the rocks."_**

**- George R.R Martin.**

* * *

**Chapter Six: Loose Ends**

Over three thousand years, the docks in the Imperial Waterfront were well used to the unusual. After all, it had been there that Tiber Septim had brought his naval forces, so very long ago, and smashed the Aldemri fleet, seizing the city and sending the elves scurrying back down south. A century or so later, the port had been home to another battle - when the armies of Leyawiin and Cheydinhal had combined forces in an attempt to wrestle the Throne of Talos from the grasp of the Septims. More recently, the Waterfront had been witness to the arrival of King Gortwog – first sword of Trinmac and leader of the Orcish people. The warrior-king had come to the city a representative of a foreign kingdom, and walked away with Orsinium forged into the Empire.

Yet despite all these strange and wondrous happenings, the sight that welcomed the Waterfront one bleak grim mondas morning was still undeniably strange. A fat wooden ship, the hull bloated and heaving, cut through the choppy black waves of Lake Rumare, the fog swirling around it like ghosts. In truth, the vessel _was_ a ghost ship, or should have been by all rights. Over fifteen men had set off on the the night before, and now only three remained – the most obvious being the large Orc that stood at the prow, watching the approaching shoreline with only mild interest. The mer's complexion was a paler shade of green than normal, his features cold and pallid. The tangle of braided black hair that hung down to his shoulders was slick with sea salt, and instead of the raiment he usually donned, his muscled chest was bare to the world. A pair of soft lambswool breeches covered his lower section, and his massive feet were naked against the deck.

Though he did not look it, Lorbul gro-Kash was deeply troubled. A maelstrom of feelings boiled, barely kept under control. The most prominent of them was the pece of information he'd been fed almost an hour ago – regarding the Amulet of Kings. According to the annoying Altmer mage who possessed it, the item had been passed to her by the Emperor along with the task of seeking out his heir and restoring the dynasty. Not exactly a believable tale. hen she'd spun it to him the first time, he'd been sorely tempted to throw the stupid girl overboard. As if he'd indulge in such folly. There was no reason to take anything she said for granted, except… _she saved my life. _There it was; plain and simple. When the bandit Selene had thrust her sword through his chest, Rumare had intervened, even managing to overcome the criminal and heal him. The Grand Champion was many things, but ungrateful was not one of them. He couldn't truly believe that the person who'd saved his life would lie to him on such a matter. But how could he know? He barely knew the Elf?

Lorbul shrugged his head in annoyance. He wasn't sure what to think.

"You look troubled," came a lofty voice from behind him. The Orc glanced over his shoulder, noting the slender female Altmer that strolled towards him, his very thoughts seeming to summon Rumare. She joined him at the stern of the ship, cocking a light eyebrow.

"I was thinking," grunted the Orc in response.

"Explains the pained expression." She grinned wickedly, and in the cold shaft of dawn that shone through the slit in the clouds, the Grand Champion took his first proper look at the Elf.

She was slender as a sword, at least a third as broad as Lorbul. The robe she wore was a faded blue fabric, looking to have seen several owners in its time. The clothing reached down to her knees, the jagged ends frayed and salt-stained. Under the robe a pair of tight doeskin boots stretched up, their points wrinkled with age. Rumare's face was curious, her sharply lined features mature enough to mark her as more than a child, but her face still regaining some of the innocent look that came with youth. Her eyebrows were scarcely more than shadows above deep amber eyes, her complexion golden, as if she'd been gilded in the sun's gaze. A curtain of honey coloured hair – a shade darker than the face – fell down to her shoulders. She had her flaws, what with a nose that seemed a little too sharp and big, and a few slightly crooked teeth. Her breasts were small and her legs rather too long. Others might've thought her good looking, though, he supposed. Not him. Never him.

Lorbul glared at her last comment, and then said, "You're awfully cheerful." He almost added _for a thief and a liar,_ before deciding against it.

Rumare shrugged her slim shoulders. "I've got to keep my spirits up, no point dwelling on the darkness of the past." She said the words like she'd used them before, well-rehearsed.

"A strange view on life," grunted the gladiator.

"The correct view on life," proclaimed the girl smugly.

"Really?"

"Really."

A silence passed, the girl's gaze wandering across his face. She studied the scar that leapt from his nose to jawline intently, chewing her lip. She opened her mouth to comment a few times, and then closed it.

"Oh for fucks sake, if you're going to say something, then bloody say it," growled the Orc. "Don't just stand there gawping at me."

The look of annoyance on her face was replaced with one of annoyance. "I was going to ask how you got such an ugly scar, but thought it might sound rude," she glowered.

"Say what you want. I've no time for liars."

Rumare seemed to consider that. "Can I tell you that you're an ugly bastard with a thick skull who doesn't know when to admit he's wrong?" she asked him.

Lorbul stared at the wench for a long moment, his face cold. Suddenly, his features split into a small smile and he laughed, Well, you're no craven," he admitted. _If only you could curb your damn squeamishness. _The girl grinned shakily back at him, and posed him another question.

"What _were _you thinking about?" she asked, and then he knew what to do.

"Your little tale," he said, turning back to look at the waves. Rumare's faint eyebrows raised. "I've given it some thought," he continued, "and come to the conclusion that you are probably telling the truth. That or you're just completely insane..."

"Let's hope not."

"Aye," agreed the Orc. He realized what he had to do suddenly."Anyway, I owe you this much." He bent down on one knee, fist clenched across his chest. "I swear to you, on my honour as a warrior and in the eyes of Malacath," he began solemnly, "that I will do my upmost to protect you and your cause. My life is yours, and, until I have repaid my debt with blood and steel, I shall let no harm come to you."

The Altmer blinked. Her eyes were as round as Septims when she looked down on him again, startled. "W-why?"

"Because I must," Lorbul said simply.

"That doesn't explain anything," she said.

"It doesn't need to."

"Well, yes it does. If you're going to follow me around, I'll need to know your reason. Otherwise it's just creepy..."

"Malacath demands such oaths. You saved my life. I will save yours."

"We can take it in turns?"

"Stop jesting. This is serious." The warrior's tone was iron.

"I know it is. I'm just not a serious person."

_Which is why you will die one-day. _"Your will be from now-on," he promised.

A look of annoyance took on her heart-shaped face. "I thought you were going to guard me? I want to give the commands," she said, annoyed.

The Orc ground his teeth in frustration. "You have no expierience."

"I don't actually give a shit."

"Stop being such a damn child!"

"Stop trying to act like you're superior to me," she glared in response.

Lorbul took a deep breath, trying not to give in to the rather tempting prospect of crushing the girl's head like a nut. "I have more expierience than you, no matter how much you deny it," he said.

"Do you?" Rumare drew up as taut as a bowstring. "How would you know? How the hell would you know anything about me? How do you know what I've done?" She didn't give him time to answer. "You don't. So don't stand there an act like you do. If you're going to 'save my life' then you do as I say."

_She is a child, _he realized. _A fucking child. _He would have to be careful how to proceed. One slip and... "If you wish us both to end up dead, then go ahead," the Orc said coldly. He paused, waiting for her answer. For a while she didn't say anything, and Lorbul thought that she was going claim the leadership for herself. Instead she simply spat on the deck and walked off, striding down from the prow and back off into the bowels of the ship. Lorbul thought about going after her, but decided against it when he saw the Harbour coming closer. They'd be on land in a few minutes.

As the coast rushed towards them, the Grand Champion mused over what to do with the feisty young Elf.

* * *

Alexander Vonius realized he was in trouble when the arrows began to run out. The battle had been decent enough to start with, standing proudly on the left side of the plaza with his quiver full and bow taut, raining down projectiles on anyone that entered the gates. Then the siege crawler sent a swirling inferno into the city, blasting the walls to smouldering ruins. With Dremora poured through the gaps, the armies clashing, he knew it was useless to continue firing. The young Imperial threw down his bow as a wave of Dremora at the archers on the left flank, exploding from too close a distance to notch an arrow and fire. His hands went to the knives at his side, and they came up with a flourish, two talons of cold steel. The Daedric forces smashed into them, blood spraying and limbs flying as they collided. A bulky Kynreeve came at him, bearing a massive axe down on him. Alexander retreated swiftly, and the weapon cleaved through the air instead, leaving the Daedric warrior to stumble forwards. The Imperial darted, one blade thrust through the Dremora's eye as he staggered towards him. The tip punched through the back of the Kynreeve's skull, red and glistening. As he pulled his knife free and stepped over the corpse, a scamp leaped out of nowhere and launched itself at Alexander, knocking him over. The creature but didn't realize it had thrown itself onto the knife in the man's left hand, and it screeched when it noticed the curved blade lodged in its stomach. He shoved the pathetic beast off him, fully aware of the gore that now drenched his boiled leather jerkin. The fur paddings that layered his leather hadn't served well so far, only being torn to shreds and increasing his sweat.

The Imperial didn't have to wait long for a new opponent. Almost as soon as he had risen a clannfear prowled towards him, fangs bared. The fight was quick and brutal, Alexander dodging the first lunge, then stepping forward and slashing off a claw. The Daedra howled in pain as a spray of blood burst out the stump, splattering into the Imperial's vision. He wasted no time in sliding his knife through its throat, leaving it to gurgle before collapsing in an every expanding pool of red.

That won Vonius a moment or so of respite, and he gazed around at how the rest of the men were faring. In the centre of the plaza, Caspian Venti and Savian Mattius held the vanguard, standing at the prow of an arrowhead formation that cut down any troops that entered the city gates. Yet even as he watched they were failing. A pair of magnificent fireballs blasted the arrowhead apart, and lightning bolts lanced off the shields of the remaining Guardsmen huddled behind the vanguard.

Alexander was jolted back to his own battle when a massive daedroth lumbered through a gap in the walls, snapping its head at the archers and veering towards them. A few managed to get a shot off, and arrows sprouted from the crocodile-headed Daedra's neck and shoulders, not seeming to do anything to stop it. The hunter brought his knife back and sent it tumbling tip over hilt through the air, whirling at the daedroth. The blade missed its eye, slashing open the thing's snout instead. Blood so dark it was almost black ran down its face, dripping onto the scorched ground. The Daedra howled in pain and spun towards Alexander, who had already thrown his second knife. It imbedded itself neatly in the Daedroth's chest, but didn't do anything more to deter it than the arrows had. And now he had no weapon. The behemoth roared and charged at the puny mortal that had dared to prick it, snapping its jaws in a vicious attempt to rip the Imperial in half. Alexander threw himself backwards at the last second, fangs gnashing unbelievably close to his face. He landed in a heap on his back, the massive beast towering over him, glaring down with cold yellow eyes.

Then a frost spell crackled over his head and caught the crocodile-headed Daedra in the chest, dappling the grey scales in a silvery-blue glow. The beast staggered back and fell over, tried to rise, and then went still, ensnared by the Destructive magicka's numbing grasp.

* * *

The side of the Bloated Float kissed the harbour wall, a heavy anchor - spotted with lichen - snaking out of the right side of the ship. It sank through the black waves, drifting down to the sands that lay at the bottom of the docks. With that task done, a heavy wooden plank was placed between the Tavern door and the stone steps of the Waterfront. The door opened, an overwhelming stench spilling out. Blood. Blood and death.

With the stink came a powerfully built Orc with a mess of dark hair, awkward on the plank. He stepped across it gingerly, looking as if he half-expected it to collaspe under his bulk. Next was a slim High Elf, wearing a disgusted expression, nose wrinkled in horror. Still, she was graceful as she walked over the plank, the frayed ends of her tattered blue shrawl playing with the sea-breeze. The last to cross was a ghost. Earlier, Lorbul had reflected how only three had returned from the voyage, but now he realized that it would be more realistic to say that two were alive. Ormil may still have been walking, but there was no joy in it, even now; when they had finally arrived back at the Waterfront. His eyes were haunted, blue and ghost-like themselves. A variety of cuts leapt across his face, several of them already looking to be festering from lack of attention. There had been no healing potions on the ship and Rumare had revealed an ineptness at Restoration. _Amongst other things. _If the High Elf had felt like smiling, the five gaping holes where his teeth should've been would become apparent. One of the poor mer's ears had been sliced nearly in half, hidden now by a bandage that would've served better for mopping up spilled wine. Even his golden complexion, before looking almost noble, had been dulled, the life seeping out of it. His hair was filthy and salt stained, dried blood crusting the once gleaming tips. Where a rich lemon-coloured doublet had once been, a dirty and ripped rag stood instead. The Grand Champion now wore a light silken shirt and a pair of lamb-wool breeches, riding boots going up to his knees. The Raiment of Valour had been thrown into the ocean, stinking of vomit and blood.

"Ahhh," exclaimed Rumare as she stood on the stone steps that led up to the street, inhaling the fresh air deeply. She smiled, stopping when Lorbul stepped past her. He continued up until he reached the street, observing the early morning congestion that was beginning to emerge. Ox-carts groaned across the roads and the white morning sun splilled out from behind the grey clouds, pale and wan. The Grand Champion lay a firm hand on the girl's shoulder, stopping her from walking out and being ran down by one of the numerous carts. She spun, anger flashing in her eyes.

"I was trying to help," he rumbled as she glared.

"I can cross the road without you holding my hand," the elf said, attempting to wrench his hand away. The gesture was ruined by her fingers slipping, making her lose her footing and stumble back down the stone steps. Lorbul sighed.

"Are you sure you don't need me to hold your hand?" he asked, once she'd got back up.

"Was that a joke?"

It continued like this for the rest of the journey. They were heading for the Imperial outpost a small and twisted tower that leapt out of a clove between two inns. Ormil had said that there was a reward for Selene's death, so it had been decided that they would claim it now they were back. If he and the girl were to embark on some epic quest to save the world, as she put it, they might as well be well-equiped. Lorbul had collected a fair amount of money in the Arena, though he'd spent most of it on wine and swords. The collection of Daedric weapons he'd bought had near beggared him, and he was still paying back much of the money. They needed all the gold they could get. Besides, the traumatized old High Elf was in dire need of help. The Legion had healers even in the Waterfront, and he needed treatment as soon as possible. Ormil hung behind as they walked through the harbour streets, not passing opinion on anything. The bandits had left scars on his outside, true, but the ones within... they ran much deeper.

They reached the ofice eventually, right at the end of the town, where the houses spilled into the woodland beyond the harbour. The buildings there were all skeletons, wooden and fragile, as if a single touch could bring them down. That was where the smugglers lurked. Huddled inside the hovels, away from the rain, waiting for a tide to pick up and take them and their ships back out to sea before they were discovered. Not that they ever were. The criminals were, strangely enough, had an excellent effect on the economy. The inns and brothels were always flowing with Septims, and if the occasional fight broke out, what of it? The gold far made up for the odd death.

Thieves on the other hand... The Legion weren't half so lazy with those brand of outlaws, because, after all, it's a very different matter when the rich themselves are being exploited, not just being sold illegal goods. The whole thing in itself was largely hypocritical, since the two guilds oft did business and complimented each-other's work in such a way.

Rust covered the outpost like a beard, the old iron walls freckled with it. Cobwebs clung to the windows, and the several tiles were missing from the roof. The Imperial Captain that was stationed there was bearded too, though his was short and neatly trimmed. His eyes were bright and alert, looking as if they didn't miss much. His hair was brushed and clean and cropped. He certainly didn't look as if he'd been in the job for long, appearance answered for that. The capatain sat at a desk immediately as the door was opened, the first floor of the outpost taken up entirely by paperwork. A curve of desks made a curtain around half of the room, several chairs and piles of papers piled behind them. A lantern burned coldly on two of the the wooden workplaces, and yet Lorbul still felt no warmth. He approached the man. The Imperial glanced up at them for a few seconds, eyes widening the more he saw. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out and the Orc was forced to speak.

"We came here for the bounty," he told him.

"There are a lot of bounties," the man said after a few seconds, still looking at Ormil, who hovered behind them near the door, as if he expected to have to make a break for it.

"The Blackwater Brigands. Heard of them?"

The Imperial sucked air through his teeth. "Selene?"

"Dead."

"How?" the Captain wanted to know.

"The girl," said Lorbul, pointing at her. The man's eyes narrowed in confusion. "How could sh-"

"Magic," cut in Rumare. The Imperial's gaze filled with mistrust. Mages were seldom seen by the Legion without that look. It was a look perfected from centuries of slavery to magic users, a look that had judged thousands and thousands before.

"Hmm," the Legionaire said. He looked at them for a while longer, and then scratched his nose. "Well, he certainly proves you're not having a joke."

Rumare muttered something about that being highly unlikely. The Grand Champion scowled at her and then replied to the Captain. "That's the innkeeper of the Bloated Float."

The man frowned in disbelief. "Ormil?" he asked. Ormil just looked at him.

"It's a long story," said the girl.

"Tell it." The captain stood up, allowing them to look at his armour for the first time. The breast-plate was a snowy white with golden chasings, a silver dragon glittering proudly on it. The gauntlets were pale, too, the knuckles gilded. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

"Yes," replied Lorbul immediately. The two High Elves looked less sure, but accepted all the same. The legionaire nodded and walked to a cabinet that stood against a wall, opening it. He returned to his desk with a cask of wine a few seconds later, sitting down and uncorking it. He offered tankards to the company. They took them. The Orc lifted the vintage, drinking deeply.

"Now, this... story?"

And so they told him. The Amulet was, of course, missed out - they didn't exactly want Rumare took over for the most of it, having been concious more than him. By the time she was finished, the Champion was onto his second cup and the captain was looking shocked. "You say that Selene is definitely dead?" he wanted to know.

"The corspe that lies on the ship is blackened and scorched, true. I see no reason for it not to be Selene's, though," Lorbul rumbled.

"Aye." The man looked undecided, fingering his beard. "Well, I suppose I could give you the reward. But..." he said, seemingly struck by a thought, "I'll only give you half the gold - since the evidence is so shaky. And if I hear of the Brigands alive in the future..." He didn't need to finish, the threat was obvious.

Rumare's nostrils flared, as if to say 'how dare you suggest that I might try to cheat you?' Lorbul fixed her with a steely look to stop her from verbally assaulting the poor man and losing them all the money.

"Thank you," he told the captain gratefully, though his eyes were devoid of any emotion.

They left the outpost after that, leaving Ormil behind. The Legion, the man had told them, had several battlemages that might be able to patch up his current frailty of a mind. What remained of the reward was considerable, certainly enough to buy them the mounts that would get them to the priory. The Orc insisted that they ride as soon as possible, to leave the horrors of the city behind. Truth be told, he was rather looking forward to the journey; it'd been a while since he'd ventured West.

The pair had saddled the horses and were half way through leading them out of the stables when Rumare announced that she had no idea how to ride.

* * *

Alexander stumbled through the ruins of the city gates, a bloodied longsword clasped in both hands. He couldn't remember when he'd picked it up, but it had served him faithfully since. The skies grumbled overhead, an angry red. Black clouds rolled across and lightning flickered behind them, dark against the glowing sky.

A flaming portal stood some way ahead, Daedric troops filing out. _There it is If I can stop them coming out, we're saved. Or at least from one gate. _A jagged archway, wide enough to allow twelve Dremora in full armour to pass. Only six charged now, though. Alexander raised his sword high, an invitation. Fourteen guardsmen stood with him, claymores brandished and faces grim. The Daedric squad appeared to notice them, for they raised their weapons in response, clanging them against their breastplates. The Imperial concluded they were mainly Dremora, though he spied one or two clannfear scurrying at the flanks.

The otherworldly soldiers came rushing in, moving faster than anyone had a right to in such heavy raiment. Within six strides they were upon them, red swords kissing the grey. He saw the Dremora men on his right cut down at least three Daedra in the first few seconds, his greatsword whirling and falling. The one on the left faired reasonably, too, taking off a clannfear's head with his first swing, and bringing down his sword on a Churl with his second. Alexander himself, who was not known for his swordsmanship, fought reasonably, darting in and putting a blade through a wounded Kynreeve's chest - already heavily feathered with arrows - when a blow send it stumbling, then taking his head clean off in a broad sweep of his longsword. Another stepped forth to take his place.

Blood soaked the Imperial's boiled jerkin and a fine sheen of sweat coated him, glistening with every move. "Fall back," shouted the guardsman on the left as he was stabbed at by a burly Kynval with a spear.

"Never," said Alexander triumphantly, slashing left then right in quick succession at the new foe - a low ranking scamp missing half an eye. Both the its arms dropped to the ground with a squelch, severed at the elbow. He drove his sword through the beast's chest and then slammed a shoulder into it, sending it sprawling.

"You're mad," shouted the guard in disbelief, ducking under a slash. Another slash raked across his chest, cutting him in half.

Only three Kyn remained now, and that number was lessened as the guardsman got the best of the spear-wielding foe, his claymore cutting the shaft in half, and then descending on the Dremora's head.

The last one looked to be a senior Dremora. Alexander came at the him from the side, his blade scraping across his armour and sending him stumbling. The three them set upon the Kyn together, eventually managing to get the better of him.

The young Imperial panted, out of breath. His longsword was chipped and stained with blood, and his coal-black hair was plastered to his brow, once piercing eyes now bloodshot and exhausted. This was his fifth battle in the last few days, and by far the most isolated.

"What now?" asked a guard bitterly, glaring hatefully at the corpses of the slain Daedra.

The slender boy pointed his sword towards the Oblivion Gate. "We have to get to that. If we can stop them from coming through, we might have a chance."

"How?"

"They're transporting their weapons, soldiers, healers, everything, using the Gates. If we cut it off, they've lost."

The ten men nodded, sliding their swords onto their backs and setting off. The ground was scorched and crumbled under their heavy steel boots, spilled blood soaked well into the earth. They drew closer to the gate, glancing around to find no enemies. Screams were audible back in the city behind them, but they sounded far off, no near threat. Closer and closer they got to the jagged archway, the flames in it beating with an unsteady rhythm.

And then, as the gateway was no more than five yards away, it happened. The wall of fire flickered, and another squad came leaping out the redness. There were five in total, two Xivilai in the centre and three Dremora on their sides. One of the Xivilai held a massive greatsword, five feet of gleaming Daedric steel, scarred from numerous usage. It was a mighty weapon, yet he only used one hand to wield it. The other was without a sword or axe, preferring his hands – they glowed with Destructive magicka. Both of the Xivilai were bare-chested, and stood at least a foot taller than their comrades, their skin iron grey.

The Catiffs threw themselves at the three Imperials, eager to impress the higher-ranking Daedra. The claymores flashed off the guards' backs and they met the charge, blows raining down as they fought – two against three. That left the Xivilai for Alexander. He brandished his longsword and charged towards them, certain that they would fall as easily as the rest of their kind. They didn't. The one with the blade chuckled darkly and said something in an alien tongue, the words vicious and guttural. The Imperial tried a stab at the Daedra, whose greatsword came up in a looping cut to knock the strike aside and stagger him. The Xivilai grinned hungrily, and slashed at him, the massive blade very nearly slicing him in half, the hunter stepping back at the last second to avoid it. Alexander dodged another swing and lunging forward, the tip of longsword going straight to the Daedra's bare chest. The blade shattered in a hundred shards when it touched the Xivilai. He stared blankly at what remained of his weapon, letting it fall to floor numbly. The warrior tipped his head back and laughed again, sounding half an animalistic roar. Alexander turned to run, but he barely made it three steps before the other Xivilai – the barehanded mage - sent a tendril of darkness snaking into his back, lifting the Imperial off the floor and suspending him in the air; completely incapable of moving a muscle.

And then the pain hit. Such pain he had never known, feeling as if countless knives were cutting into every inch of his skin, as if searing flames that licked against him, melting his flesh and burning, burning like hellfire. It felt as he was being ripped apart, as if his bones were bending and snapping, his very essence being torn to pieces. He screamed, screamed and wept till his throat was raw, his eyes were red and the world began to fade, until there was just the pain, the unbearable pain…

And then, when he begged wordlessly for death, for relief, the torturous spell lifted, knives retracting, flames fanning out, and Alexander dropped like a stone to a crumpled heap on the floor. Slowly, colour began to return to the world. As he lay there shivering, out of the corner of his eye the young man glimpsed one of the guards being mowed down by a Dremora with a morningstar, the spiked head smashing into the Imperial's skull and rupturing it like an overripe melon.

A man loomed over him – no, wait, not a man; men didn't have grey skin and red eyes, and in all his years, Alexander had never seen such a vicious look on a human face. The Xivilai mage stared down at the mortal and smiled.

"D-don't kill me," pleaded the young man, tears streaming. "I n-need to say sorry… sorry… to-"

A dagger glinted in the Daedra's hands, eight inches of otherworldly steel. The Xivilai leaned down and seized him roughly by his hair, pulling his head back and pressing the cold edge of blade to his adam's apple. He dragged the blade across his throat, a great gout of black blood spraying out. He fell back, arms splayed out s if he'd been pinned to a crucifix. Alexander Vonius was dead before he hit the ground.

* * *

**A/N: Well, that felt like a marginably good chapter. I'd appreciate it if you tell me everything I've done wrong (which I'm sure is a lot), since it really helps me improve. Please review if you've got any questions you want me to answer. I don't care if the review is just 'well done, nice chapter', as long as you review. See you in my next update. **


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